Leftover Spaghetti
by DisneyNerds
Summary: "Looks like another night of old spaghetti, huh?" Natasha never thought that a late night of leftovers in the apartment could lead to an unexpected surprise.


**A/N:** Hey everyone! Olivia here! Just wrote a Valentine's Day oneshot for our favorite couple: CLINTASHA of course! Can't wait to see more of them in theaters. :) Hope you guys enjoy!

3 am had already passed by the time the beautiful redhead stepped out of the biting February air and unlocked the oak door of her apartment. The small room was cloaked in black when she entered, the window facing the street shedding a small stream of yellow light that broke through the crack in the plastic blinds.  
With the clatter of her keys falling into the glass bowl on the countertop, she flicked the light switch next to the door on, basking the flat in a faint glow.  
Natasha Romanov let out a deep sigh, rubbing her neck with delicate fingers and shuffling over to the small, frugal kitchenette. On S.H.E.I.L.D.'s salary, she certainly couldn't afford the Ritz accommodations. Bending over, she tugged open the large refrigerator door, poking her head into the harsh white light.  
"Looks like another night of old spaghetti, huh?" She slipped the tupperware from the shelf, popping the lid off and placing it into a worn-out microwave tucked under the cabinets.  
Leaving the machine running to heat up her makeshift dinner, Natasha slowly made her way into the dark bedroom around the corner. She didn't care to turn on the light, merely walking over to the dresser and pulling out a black tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. She pushed the straps of the tight black dress that she wore from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. The garment had seen plenty of missions that would rather have been forgotten. Natasha was always grateful that she was able to ceremoniously strip herself of it.  
A sigh of comforted relief escaped her lips as she pulled the fresh soft cotton onto her skin.  
Her head raised on instinct as she heard the distant timer on the oven go off. Quickly hanging the dress in the closet, she hurried back over to the kitchen. Before she rounded the corner, the smell of leftover italian food wafted in through her nose, provoking a curious sense of warmth and comfort.  
It was strange that eating reheated pasta could be "comforting", but to Natasha, expensive dinners and slinky dresses meant S.H.I.E.L.D. work, and leftovers meant home.  
Pulling out a plastic plate, the assassin settled down at the counter and dug her way into a long awaited meal.

At least twenty minutes had gone by, with Natasha spooning forkfuls of spaghetti into her mouth while reading some new mission reports out of an unmarked manila folder. She was so content, she didn't flinch when another key entered the old front door lock. She could hear shuffling of feet by the door and the sound of a coat being removed. The footsteps slowly approached, loud and lazy.  
"Spaghetti's on the stove, Clint." A calloused hand gently patted her bare shoulder and she watched her partner shamble over to the oven.  
He neglected grabbing a plate, rather picking up a fork from the wooden drawer, pulling the stool out next to her, and hunched over the tub, attacking the pasta like starving lion.  
The redhead chuckled, observing the archer with her face propped on her palm, as he smeared red sauce around his mouth. "Rough day?"  
An amused snort echoed in the plastic tub.  
Natasha took that as a yes.  
She noticed the wrinkles and sweat on his grey shirt and the overall rumpled state he was in. She hadn't asked, but her guess was that he was signed up for an ambush that night. To a trained marksman, that literally means a night of crouching over until your back breaks, keeping yourself from falling asleep in boredom, and betting on how much the target was willing to pay to spare his life. All in all, she wagered, not a very exciting evening.  
Clint finally began to slow down his devouring, alerting Natasha that he was beat. Figuring that he would most likely just settle down at his perch (or the old tattered arm chair in the front room) with a book, she picked up her plate and gently deposited it in the sink.  
Her fingers stroked coarse fabric as she patted his shoulder, turning to retire to the bedroom, but stopped when Clint's fingers grabbed a hold of her thin wrist.  
He was still chewing somewhat noisily as he pulled an object out from underneath his jacket.  
Natasha's eyes widened as he placed a small bouquet of slightly rumpled roses into her arms. They were delicate to the touch, scattered with sprigs of baby's breath and wrapped in green cellophane.  
She was still staring at the flowers in shock when her partner picked up his tupperware and stood up at full height next to her. Cupping her chin between his forefinger and thumb, he tilted her face to the left and placed a rough kiss on her cheek.  
"Happy Valentine's Day, Nat."  
His words stirred the hair by her ear and stunned blush crept up her cheeks as he walked over and sat down on his beat up chair.  
A moment passed before she glanced down at the bouquet and spotted a white card tucked between the scarlet petals.  
A small chuckle rose from her lips when she read the message scrawled hastily across the paper,  
"To my favorite redhead"


End file.
